


A Lover's Discourse: Fragments

by menel



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Meditations, fragments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menel/pseuds/menel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of fragments told from both Legolas and Aragorn's points of view, revealing their changing relationship through the years. Based on the incomparable <i>A Lover's Discourse: Fragments</i> by Roland Barthes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "I am engulfed, I succumb . . ."

**Author's Note:**

> When I first began this series in 2004, I never thought I would post it anywhere but my LiveJournal. Having recently reread and discussed the work on which it is based, I find myself with a change of heart. This is, after all, a labor of love. 
> 
> This work is based on the extraordinary book _A Lover's Discourse: Fragments_ by Roland Barthes and translated by Richard Howard. In my audacity, I have attempted to contextualize it in the world of Middle-earth, framing it through the relationship of Legolas and Aragorn. 
> 
> This first figure is based on an improv using the words 'surge,' 'height,' 'fade,' and 'ringbearer.'

*** 

_s'abîmer_ / to be engulfed 

Outburst of annihilation which effects the amorous subject in despair or fulfillment.

***

We all, at moments of despair or fulfillment, seek to be engulfed. We crave it, as we crave air. To be engulfed is to surrender, to give one’s self up to the abyss, either through sorrow or ecstasy. 

I have known the former. I have never felt it as acutely as I did that day, standing at that great height, keen eyes sweeping the moving waters below. I clutched your beloved’s pendant as pinpricks of grief burned into my hand. 

Our love is an open grave, a shared death. But I shall not follow you into that abyss. It is a foolish notion that changes nothing, that does not break the silence of my desolation. There is no longer any place for me, not even in death. 

Is this abyss a complete annihilation? I have only spoken of despair, an extreme emotion that resides on one side of this spectrum. Annihilation is also sweet repose, a willingness to disappear. I mask my mourning through dilution. I melt, I surge, I descend. 

My thoughts drift to the Ringbearer, who is lost from our sight. He, most of all, knows what it is to be engulfed. He lives with it, a burden that grows heavier with each passing day as it hangs from a chain on his neck. When despair grazes him with its black tendrils, and all hope seems lost, he does not relinquish his Quest. Nay, he swoons and disappears into the Other; ever present and ever ready. He comes out: it is bliss. 

A hand rests upon my shoulder. The host is moving. It is time to depart. Darkness grows nearer. I resist my body’s command to surrender, I substitute my failing strength for another. I must keep my despair at bay. 

For I know, that this too shall fade.


	2. The Absent One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *** 
> 
> _absence_ / absence 
> 
> Any episode of language which stages the absence of the loved object - whatever its cause and its duration - and which tends to transform this absence into an ordeal of abandonment. 
> 
> ***

I live in suspense – a figure frozen in my father’s hallways of living stone. When the opportunity arises, I escape and venture into the beloved woods of my home. There, under the swaying beech trees, an insidious whisper voices my soundless thoughts. It says: “I am loved less than I love.” 

It is you who leave, while I remain. It is you who journeys, while I wait. It is this condition, this perpetual absence, which gives shape to my song. 

There are times when I have no difficulty enduring absence. I slip into the conventions of those around me, as one slips on a mask for a costumed ball. Then I may enjoy the pleasure of my bow and arrow, the thrill of a hunt, the company of my siblings, the laughter of friends. But this mask is nothing more than a skillful deception. 

For I am unfaithful. I must be or else I would die. I am unfaithful because I willingly choose to forget. That is the condition of my survival. If I did not forget, I would surely perish. I would die of weariness, of intemperance – I would die from the necessity of keeping your image alive. 

Yet I wake abruptly from my forgetfulness. Each act of adultery reconstitutes a perfect memory in my mind. And I sigh. I sigh for your bodily presence, for the warmth of your embrace. Each breath I draw without you remains incomplete. 

Endlessly I sustain the discourse of your absence – it is a preposterous affair. Simultaneously, I lament your absence while I affirm your presence. I desire. I need. 

Gracefully, I take my place at the high table. Many seek my company. I feel surrounded, privileged, desired. Silently, in the adoration of others, I invoke your protection, I plead for your return. Take me away from the brilliance of this court, from the responsibilities of my station. Restore me to the lover’s world. 

My head remains underwater. Gradually, I am drowning. I am alone amidst a sea of my kin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This 'figure' was originally posted on my LiveJournal on January 27, 2004.


	3. "Adorable!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *** 
> 
> _adorable_ / adorable 
> 
> Not managing to name the specialty of his desire for the loved being, the amorous subject falls back on this rather stupid word: _adorable!_
> 
> ***

It is spring in Imladris, my favorite time of the year. Not because the frost melts and the paths reopen; not because the blossoms bloom and our fields are arrayed in green and gold; not because the scent of rebirth is in the air and I feel its quickening in my veins. No. 

I cherish spring because for a few short weeks, you are here. 

Then all of Imladris is alight with life, with a vibrancy that exceeds its charm and its history, as its inhabitants prepare for the festival. Everything seems within my grasp, though I have no desire to grasp it. I am filled with neither lust nor indolence even as my thoughts remain focused on you. 

I watch you now as you spar with my foster brothers. White knives glinting in the morning sun, you good-naturedly take them on both at once. There is playfulness in your game and though I wish to join, I have neither the skill nor the courage. 

Aside from a few passing words of courtesy, I am not bold enough to speak to you. What would I say? My words are coarse and crude when compared to the poetry of the Elves. You are an aesthetic vision, a perfect being in my eyes. I dream that you seek to be loved, though that grace is surely offered freely wherever you go. Yet in my fantasies it is I who give it to you and am blessed by its reciprocated return. 

I am surrounded by the eternal beauty of the Elves. Of all these beings I may desire a handful, yet I will love only one. My yearning for you is so great that I struggle to express it. Inevitably, I stumble, I stammer. I fall back upon a single foolish word, ‘adorable!’ 

Herein lies the great enigma. Why can I not locate the specialty of my desire? Why do I desire you lastingly, longingly and no other? Is it a silhouette that I love? A shape? A mood? Is it a whole that I cannot quantify? Yet I seek to do so and I understand that my simple word means this is what I desire so long as it is ‘unique’. That it exclaims in its joy: “Yes! That’s it! That is precisely what I love!” 

The endless paradox clouds my mind. For the more I attempt to concretize the specialty of my desire, the less I am able to express it, and this troubles me. 

A spring shower falls upon my adopted home, the glistening rain scattering the Elves outside. You also seek shelter and enter the covered terrace where I stand, my foster brothers not far behind. You approach me as my breath tightens in my throat. 

“Estel,” you say in greeting. Awaiting a response but receiving none, your brow creases slightly in concern. “Are you well?” 

“Adorable!” I burst out. 

My nonsensical reply surprises you and an amused smile curves around the corners of your delicate mouth as Elladan and Elrohir appear behind you. You nod once before proceeding indoors, my foster brothers urging me to join your company as they pass. 

I agree shyly. As I turn to follow them inside I glimpse the shadow of your disappearing form, a wisp of your golden hair and an unvoiced utterance enters my mind. 

You fascinate me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This 'figure' was originally posted on my LiveJournal on January 27, 2004.


	4. The Intractable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *** 
> 
> _affirmation_ / affirmation 
> 
> Against and in spite of everything, the subject affirms love as a _value_. 
> 
> ***

Despite the difficulties of our tale, despite the doubts and the uncertainties, despite the distance between us in body and in mind, despite the moments of despair and impulses to escape, I ceaselessly affirm love, within myself, as a value. Though I hear all the arguments against us, spoken or unspoken, I persist. I counter these arguments that try to depreciate love by what is true, by what is worthwhile. This is why I remain steadfast, why I believe. This stubbornness is my protest. For all the reasons that I should choose another, that I may be loved better, that I should love differently, my voice rises above the outcry and pleads . . . just a while longer. 

I am the Intractable Lover. 

Though I know our story shall end badly, for all such unions have the same fate, I remain happy and wretched at the same time. Your victory will be my defeat, your sorrow will be my song. I live day by day according to chance. I am neither victor nor vanquished, yet I emerge. 

I am tragic. 

My father has received a summons from Rivendell. Lord Elrond has called a special council that I shall attend in my father’s place. Though I know it is of the utmost importance, I tarry. I dally in my room and write you a love letter, one that I will not give you. It is the act of writing that is my affirmation. I happily abandon dreary tasks and rational responsibilities in favor of the Lover’s Duty. I am the sole witness to my lunacy. Everything I do has meaning, though it may be of an ineffable nature. It is from this meaning that I draw my strength and yet I remain utterly alone. 

I am trapped in my own philosophy. 

When I reflect on our short history, for it is but a season in my eyes, I see that love has two affirmations. There is the dazzling moment when I first encountered you, not as a youth infatuated by an Elven Prince from a distant land, but as a young man, uncertain but strong, innocent yet wise. There was an immediate affirmation, an enthusiasm I struggled to contain; a blindness that veiled my sight. From that moment our journey began and I traveled down a long tunnel. That first ‘yes’ was riddled by many doubts, by rising moments of melancholic passion, by resentment of my inevitable solitude. I will overcome the obstacles in our path to once again affirm what I know, to go back to that first affirmation. I do not seek a repetition of that brilliant moment, I desire a return. So that I may say to you: 

Let us begin once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This 'figure' was originally posted on my LiveJournal on February 1, 2004.


	5. The Tip of the Nose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *** 
> 
> _altération_ / alteration 
> 
> Abrupt production, within the amorous field, of a counter-image of the loved object. According to minor incidents or tenuous features, the subject suddenly sees the good Image alter and capsize. 
> 
> ***

1\. Our relationship has changed. There has been an imperceptible shift in the dynamics of our love, one that we do not speak of; nay, that we do not even address. It hangs between us, like fine diaphanous silk, such that may only be spun from the loom of one of Mirkwood’s fearsome spiders. Broodingly I trace its web, for it is a recent development. In my heart I know that something remains hidden from me and my trepidation builds. Yet I dare not question you but trust that you shall reveal the truth when you will. 

I watch you from across the banquet table. On this eve you have been seated beside the Lórien delegation with your longtime friend and companion on your right. It is not jealousy that stirs my heart, but the nascent whiff of desire, one that I know you remain unaware of. This desire is unconscious and reciprocated. I observe it through your conversation, I see it multiply in gesticulations and delicate touches, I hear it in the sound of your tinkling laugh. And your vision becomes corrupted by the seduction of this third party, by this infatuation he possesses to draw you out, to establish a warmer, more demanding relation. You become a stranger to me. 

2\. Haldir is speaking in his gentle tone and, though I nod my head in reassurance, his words wash over me like the rolling of waves at sea, swirling, flowing, their meaning distant and remote. My thoughts remain focused on a single conversation, a spoken phrase that has altered my image of you. 

Language is a keyhole and through this utterance I glimpse a whole new world, one that rumbles menacingly, threatening to destroy the sanctity of our love. I glimpse the world of the Other, your world in which I have no place. Should you succeed, should you reclaim what is rightfully yours, your life will be dedicated to service. You will yield to courtly rites and customs, just as I have done. One day your people will kneel before you. 

Our paths have been severed before you were born yet I stubbornly hold my course. Like a hand reaching out in the darkness, my fingers close upon a solitary flower. I gently caress a petal, its texture smooth as velvet against my skin. But should I travel lower the image of the flower would be altered, tainted by the prick of its thorns. 

You are Isildur’s heir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This 'figure' was originally posted on my LiveJournal on February 5, 2004. 
> 
> It is based on the improv 'silk,' 'kneel,' 'petal' and 'glimpse.'


	6. Agony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *** 
> 
> _angoisse_ / anxiety 
> 
> The amorous subject, according to one contingency or another, feels swept away by the fear of a danger, an injury, an abandonment, a revulsion – a sentiment he expresses under the name of _anxiety_. 
> 
> ***

The hour is not late but I have decided to return to our shared quarters alone. You remain in the great hall, socializing and effortlessly mingling with guests as your station calls for you to do. Though I have spent my short life entirely in the company of your kin, I find the folk of Mirkwood of a different sort from the Elves of Imladris. Your people show me every grace and courtesy as your guest, yet I detect a certain distance and reserve on their part. I am a stranger in your realm. 

Perhaps it is the influence of your father. While many see him as cold and aloof, I have always held a secret admiration for the Woodland King, and I long to redeem my shortcomings in his eyes. Though he tolerates our friendship he is distrustful of Men, and he would not take kindly to the new closeness of our bond. And why should he when I myself know I am not worthy of you? 

Even now, alone in this lavish room, I cannot help but wonder why you accepted my shy advances. What can you possibly see that has allowed me to enter your world as more than an unproven youth? The answers that come do nothing to allay my fears. Instead my anxiety is exacerbated and I begin to pace the polished floor, my boots clicking in time to my restless thoughts. 

And such thoughts that fill my mind! Perhaps I am no more than a dalliance to you, a novelty by which to pass the time. I have nothing to give you, though I would gladly offer all that I possess. Of what use is my youthful exuberance to one who has remained ever young? Soon you will grow tired of me and I shall be cast aside, abandoned, replaced by one who is your equal. The thought paralyzes me. 

Time passes like a single stream. At last, when I hear the turning of the latch I am instantly by your side. Before you can even close the door behind you, I have pushed you against it, attacking you with desperate kisses. The heavy door closes with a solemn sound beneath our combined weight and I can feel your lips curve into a smile against my own. Languorously you return the kiss in your sensual manner, slowing the tempo and taking control. Our bodies have established a natural rhythm against the carved wooden surface and your presence has eased my fears. But as I slide down your body to the scent of your growing arousal a final terrible thought crosses my mind. 

I have already lost you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This 'figure' was originally posted on my LiveJournal on February 8, 2004.


	7. To Love Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *** 
> 
> _annulation_ / annulment 
> 
> Explosion of language during which the subject manages to annul the loved object under the volume of love itself: by a specifically amorous perversion, it is love the subject loves, not the object. 
> 
> ***

You are a pernicious lover. You surreptitiously invade my thoughts so that I may sing your praises, whisper endearments, take you to task, idolize you, adore you, curse you, wrap you in the radiant cocoon of our love. 

In a moment frozen in time, I recognize our love for what it is. You are an inert object, motionless, wreathed in mortality. I see that it is not you I love, but our love. You are annulled, crossed out and I shift my desire to Desire itself. The loved being is no more than a tool. This perversion brings me great joy, for I am able to raise myself above the other, to hold you at a distance and say, “I am part of something greater.” 

For a time will come when I must renounce you, and where shall I be then? Mourning? Grieving? Veiled in despair? To renounce you is a sacrifice I willingly make, but it shall not be my doom. I will not mourn what has not been lost. Should I weep, I will not weep for us. I will weep for the loss of Love, for the crumbling of its majestic temple. 

Herein lies the sole advantage of your annulment. Should an injury threaten me, should a bout of jealousy overcome me, should my solitude overwhelm me, I may absorb it into the magnificence of Love. I desire what is absent, and thus can no longer harm me. Yet this annulment causes me pain. I suffer at seeing the other reduced, diminished, excluded from the sentiment you have helped me create. I have abandoned you and I am riddled with guilt. Of what use is the treasure of your heart without you to share it with? A reversal occurs. I seek to disannul you. I compel myself to suffer again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This 'figure' was originally posted on my LiveJournal on February 26, 2004.


	8. To Be Ascetic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *** 
> 
> askesis 
> 
> Whether he feels guilty with regard to the loved being, or whether he seeks to impress that being by representing his unhappiness, the amorous subject outlines an ascetic behavior of self-punishment (in life style, dress, etc.). 
> 
> ***

I am guilty. Beyond a doubt, I know this. It is a guilt I have assigned to myself. And so I must carry out my penance. I shall punish myself; I shall discipline my body. I shall wander the wilderness, traveling for days without food or rest, tracking what must be tracked. My hair grows unkempt, my clothes are soiled, but I will not take the time to wash or to change my dress. How you would loathe me in this state! You would fix me with a disapproving look before taking me to your private bath (or the stillness of a moonlit pool), and there you would scrub me until my body has been cleansed of all filth and grime. But my spirit would remain heavy. 

I would bow my head, penitently, as befitting a man in mourning. I would be a little sad, humbled, worthy of a man who bears his resentment. 

For my action is a form of blackmail. 

Askesis is addressed to the other: turn back, look at me, see what you have done, come to me, comfort me. I raise before you the outline of my own disappearance, the vanishing of my self, as it will surely occur if you do not yield to me. 

But already I know your reply.

Yield to what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This 'figure' was originally posted on my LiveJournal on March 4, 2004.


	9. Atopos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *** 
> 
> _atopos_ / atopos 
> 
> The loved being is recognized by the amorous subject as “atopos” (a qualification given to Socrates by his interlocutors), i.e. unclassifiable, of a ceaselessly unforeseen originality. 
> 
> ***

You, the being whom I love, are _atopos_. Unclassifiable. Unique. A singular image that fits the specialty of my desire. You are the figure of my personal truth and cannot be imprisoned by any stereotype – that would be the ‘truth’ of others.

Yet, I have loved in the past. Though it is unthinkable now, I may love again in the future. My actions cause me to wonder: Is my desire, as special as it is, linked to a particular type? For all its mystery, is it classifiable? Among all the beings that I have loved, can I say to myself, “Yes, here it is. This is the common characteristic that runs through them all.” Do we not spend our lives searching for that one particular type? 

You defy this. I see the other’s _atopia_ on your face. At once, I understand that you bear the mark of tremendous innocence. Never will you know the injury that you have done me, the harm that you have given me. While you possess the character ‘traits’ that would be easy to classify you, there have been on several occasions, when I have read in your eyes an expression of complete innocence. Your _atopia_ takes me by surprise and I exonerate you from all criticism and blame. I set you aside, outside and above your own character.

For _atopia_ resists all definition by description or language. Language becomes indecisive and unstable. It is impossible to speak _of_ the other, or _about_ the other; where every attribute rings false and awkward, painful in its limitations. The other is unqualifiable – the true meaning of _atopos_. 

In the brilliance of your originality, I fall. I am classified, like an all too familiar book. I can never be atopos. From time to time, I am able to suspend our unequal images. I perceive that the true site of originality lies not within the other or myself, but in our relation. Thus, it is our relation that injures me and inevitably must be conquered. I assign myself the stereotypes of a lover: to be neglected, jealous and forlorn. But when this relation is original, the stereotypes are shaken, transcended, they become vacuous. There is no more room for such petty feelings as jealousy. These stereotypes and their prevailing discourse cease to exist, and we are left with the inimitability of our union.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This 'figure' was originally posted on my LiveJournal on March 10, 2004.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All 'figures' and 'arguments' are the genius of Roland Barthes. All characters and places belong to Tolkien and New Line Cinema. No profit is being made.


End file.
